


The Love Thieves: Ludus

by TrueMyth



Series: The Love Thieves [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fake Marriage, La Femme Nikita AU, Mildly Dubious Consent, Moira is not Canon!Moira, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:48:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueMyth/pseuds/TrueMyth
Summary: Section One is the most covert anti-terrorism group on the planet. Their ends are just, but their means are never simple. Just when Felicity is finding her balance as the organization’s newest operative, she is thrown off center again by the most bittersweet of demands.  To stop a series of terrorist gas attacks, Oliver and Felicity must pose as married assassins and infiltrate the domain of a depraved mastermind. After all, Section One demands more than life, liberty, and loyalty: sometimes it's  your heart on the line.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to coffee-with-sunshine, scu11y22, bushlaboo, and arghhellopoe for all your help during the writing process. Thanks too to alexiablackbriar13 who created the amazing banner. Finally, thanks to all the readers of Part 1 for your patience in waiting for this part; your kind enthusiasm helped greatly in getting this section ready to publish. Enjoy!
> 
> I will be posting a new chapter every Saturday.
> 
>   
> Made by alexiablackbriar13

Felicity struts to the briefing table in her new purple heels, feigning indifference at the double-takes thrown at her bright turquoise dress. The unofficial Section uniform of black, black, and more black — this time in leather! — is laughingly similar to her college wardrobe, but she finds it too depressing to sit around talking about ways to kill people while already dressed for a funeral.

She adjusts her sunglasses and sits in her customary spot, several seats down from Oliver’s usual position at the end of the table.

This will be her sixth official mission for Section, and she’s shocked to find herself falling into a weird sort of routine. At least she hasn’t had to kill anyone since Armitage’s man.

John settles on her left, and they have time share a smile and say, “hey,” before Operations emerges from the shadows.

Felicity is pretty sure he makes these entrances on purpose, like he’s... a ninja assassin or something. The thought of the intimidating older man in a full ninja suit, his icy blue eyes glaring out from beneath some hood, almost makes her giggle unprofessionally, but it’s better than the chilling dread she first felt at these meetings.

His eyes are hard as he surveys the collected group of operatives, seeking faults. From the way his mouth purses, he seems to have found them, but he cuts the air with a sharp hand motion and clicks on the display screens, apparently ready to commence with the briefing.

“Rand Phieser.” The center screen shows a middle aged man with an oily face and a balding pate of light red hair. “Arms dealer and mercenary leader. For hire to the highest bid,” Operations spits out the sentence fragments with distaste. “Four hours ago, we intercepted this transmission sent between Phieser’s base and a Red Cell stronghold.”

Phieser’s image is relegated to a side screen as a video goes live on the main one. A young man enters a small room, filmed from above. He is carrying an orange tabby, stroking him sorrowfully as he sets the cat on the table. Things don’t look good for the cat, and Felicity sinks into her chair. But when the man pulls at the door handle, it is clear that the cat is not the only creature now trapped in the room. He turns to the camera and implores mercy and salvation, muted but clearly understandable.

Felicity closes her eyes behind her sunglasses and counts to three. When she opens them again, a white mist has filled much of the room and the man is clawing at his throat as his eyes turn red around the edges and the camera pans in.

The camera pans in? Someone is actively torturing this person, controlling the camera in real time to get the best shot of the effect of the gas.

In under a minute, the man is on the floor, twitching with mild convulsions as blood leaks from his eyes and mouth. A minute later, he is still. Dead.

John mutters something under his breath.

“As some of you recognize, this viral weapon is known to us, confirmed by the data transmitted.” Operation triggers a series of chemical analysis charts to cascade across a side screen, but the dead man remains in the center, ghoulishly focused on by the camera operator. “Phieser has AlphaOmega.”

John’s fist hits the arm of his chair, but it’s not his dramatic response that Felicity keys in on. Even several feet away, she can’t help but notice the change in Oliver. He is controlled, as always, but his lips tighten and his hands clench ever so slightly. He’s seen this horrible weapon before, too.

“We believe that Red Cell has contracted Phieser to act as their trigger man while they are in the midst of talks with the government, negotiating for the release of political prisoners and the end of trade sanctions.” Operation can’t keep the smirk off his lips. “Phieser will give them plausible deniability with the world stage while he uses the threat of the AlphaOmega to provide leverage.”

“How much does he have?” Oliver is only a shade away from interrupting, and Operation pauses long enough to indicate that it has not gone unnoticed.

“Enough to take out the downtown of a large city, if deployed correctly.” Operation’s smile gives Felicity the creeps. “But that scenario is unlikely. We estimate that he will stage one -- perhaps two -- attacks on domestic soil, in contained environments.”

“He likes to be in control,” Moira agrees. “He is a sadist and a provocateur, often as dangerous to his allies as he is to his enemies.”

Operations nods. “As such, he frequently needs to contract for new support. Team A, you are on standby for the time being. Team B, you have something to pick up at the airport.”

Felicity stands, eager to get away from the horrible image acting as Operation’s current backdrop. She notices Oliver standing too. He’s part of her team, which means he’s not leading the mission. They’ll be in the field together.

She’ll need some time to prepare for this eventuality.

He was so kind to her after the Armitage mission. For one hour, it was like they were normal people, sipping coffee in a small cafe, telling jokes about college, and rambling about television shows. If she is honest, she did most of the talking, but he listened with a small, sweet smile curving at the edge of his mouth, asking questions designed to keep her going in a way that seemed honest and interested. That seemed like he cared what she had to say.

And then they returned to Section, and she hadn’t seen him again. He didn’t call.

For two more days he didn’t call. Then he did, just as she was heading out to shop with Lyla, but the only thing he said was “ _Josephine_ ,” and he gave her only the barest nod at the briefing, even when she sat next to him.

The mission went well, but he asked her not to joke over the comms, and Moira handled her debrief.

Felicity had finally realized what he was telling her by not telling her anything. He knew that she had gotten certain _ideas_ in that coffee shop. He knew how attracted she was to him. And he was trying to let her down. She couldn’t say _gently_ , but she could respect the message. She _would_ respect the message.

So as Oliver moves towards Curtis in the systems hub, Felicity redirects her steps to John’s armory.

A minute later, John joins her.

“I thought you’d be working on your little side project.”

Felicity sets down the wrench she’s been toying with and hops up on John’s work bench.

“Maybe in a few minutes,” she says, swinging her legs.

John glances towards the computer hub. “Mm-hum.”

She rolls her eyes.

“You could also get some rest. This Phieser guy sounds like a piece of work.”

“Worried about me?”

“Maybe I’m worried about his reaction if he steps out of line when you haven’t had your morning coffee.”

“That happened _once_ , John!”

He nods with a faint smile and begins loading a weapons case.

Felicity watches in silence for a few minutes, until she can’t contain her curiosity.

“So what is this AlphaOmega?”

John levels his gaze at her.

“You reacted like there was some history there.”

“Not me, really. Oliver.”

John waves over Team B, making them sign out the supplies and waiting until they head off to transport before answering.

Meanwhile, Felicity has overworked a stray twist-tie until the black plastic turned white.

“Well?” she demands.

“Hum?” John asks, all innocence.

The twist-tie snaps. “What is Oliver’s history with AlphaOmega?”

John leans against the workbench next to her, surveying Section as he frames his answer.

“About five years ago, there was an outbreak of the stuff in Hong Kong.”

Felicity nods. She nudges his arm with her knee. “… And?”

John shrugs. “Oliver was there. He was freelance then, I think. Tried to stop it. Couldn’t.”

The sentence fragments form a mosaic of pain for Felicity, but she still can’t see the whole picture.

“A kid died. Someone Oliver knew, a son of a friend.”

Felicity sucks in an involuntary breath.

“Yeah.” John nods. “Yeah. He should probably be the one to tell you the rest.”

The ridiculous picture of Oliver having a heart-to-heart with her, opening up to her in that way, forces a painful laugh from Felicity, the sharp release of air aching somewhere near the center of her rib cage.

“Yeah,” she agrees.

“Oh, would you look at that?” John pivots slightly and gives a slight nod as two operatives disappear into a darkened workroom.

“Was that Jen?” Felicity thinks she recognized the short redhead, someone who was recruited not too long before herself.

“And Simon,” John confirms. He adds, “They’d better be careful.”

“Why?”

“You’re kidding right?” He’s looking at her like her hair has just turned blue.

She shakes her head.

“Look, Section is realistic. They don’t mind operatives messing around, off duty. It’s a stressful job, and we’ve all got to blow off some steam.”

“…But?”

“But that’s all. Any real _feelings_ start to develop? Feelings that could get in the way during a mission or supersede an allegiance to Section?” John tisks.

“They get separated?”

“Come on, girl. You’ve been here longer than that.”

“ _Canceled?_ Is that their answer to everything?”

“Okay, only in extreme cases,” John admits. “But it’s not pretty.”

“What about love?” She doesn’t mean to ask the question.

“Take it where you can find it, Felicity. But be careful.” John turns, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Be careful.”

He seems to be telling her something, but she’s not sure that she’s picking up on his subtext, so she nods slowly.

John seems satisfied. “I think the coast is clear now,” he observes as he pulls out a tray and begins to assemble a gun.

“I… what do you mean?”

John just shakes his head and makes small shooing gestures in the direction of Curtis’s station.

Felicity leaves him to his work and heeds the siren call of the server lights.

* * *

Three hours later, Felicity is comfortably ensconced several levels below the Hub, surrounded by the flickering red, green, and blue lights of the Section server farm. A soft, grey hoodie, borrowed from Curtis, keeps her arms warm in the chill of 65 degrees Fahrenheit. Her legs are drawn under her body, onto a soft leather sofa cushion that someone dragged down and abandoned. Around her are the circuit boards, cables, and tools she needs to finish her project, but she ignores them for the horror on her screen.

Helicopter footage displays the chaos of a market square, bodies lying like broken dolls, covered in posters screaming warnings in two languages. Survivors stagger through the wreckage of the Hong Kong neighborhood, and she considers that one of these little people might be Oliver. He had been there, seen people he cared about die. God.

A soft “hey” jerks her gaze from the tablet, and he is standing there, looking down at her with a faint, fond smile.

“Don’t you knock?”

He blinks at her snapping tone and glances up and down the metal catwalk and rows of computer hardware as if looking for a door.

“Sorry,” she says, still hugging the screen reflexively to her chest. “You startled me.”

He nods and crouching down to her level, leaning back against the metal support beam opposite hers. The fine dark grey material of his slacks stretch across his thighs as he adjusts his seat, and she swallows.

“How are you doing?”

“What?”

He looks a little more concerned now. “The first couple weeks, being on call for missions, it can take some time to adjust. How are you?”

Felicity stares at him for another beat, trying to judge his intention. It’s like coffee-shop-Oliver has rolled up on her in the middle of server heaven, completely oblivious to the cold shoulder that he’s projected ever since.

“I’m fine,” she finally says.

He nods, glancing around at the computer parts. “And what’s all this?”

She carefully swipes away the footage of Hong Kong and sets down her tablet. “Something I’m working on for Curtis.”

“Really? What does it do?” His knees are up, his arms wrapped around them with the shirtsleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, and he leans in as if eager to hear her explanation.

She really wishes that she was still wearing her sunglasses, but they are hanging from her dress and she is forced to meet his intense gaze.

“He mentioned that the data from Europe was sluggish of late. It could just be data fragmentation, but defragging a system this size takes a while and downtime could have consequences. I was developing a work-around in college and offered to help.” She shrugs.

“That’s good. I knew you’d get along with Curtis once your training was finished.”

“He was worried that I was going to take his job.”

“Figured that out, did you?”

He grins this crazy half-grin, his eyes sheepish, and she just wants to fall into him, and forgive all the hurt, and kiss him all over his stupid face.

“What really happened in Hong Kong?”

He shuts down, as she knew he would, snapping back as if his spine has fused with the metal beam, his face drained of all mirth.

“Who told you about Hong Kong?”

“I — I was researching AlphaOmega. For the mission.”

He doesn’t look as if he believes her.

“You were there.” 

“It was a long time ago.”

“But we’re facing it _today_. Don’t you think I should know all that I can about this thing?”

“You don’t need to know everything, Felicity.” He stands up. “Moira wants to see us.”

Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. She’s screwed this up. Even if he was toying with her, only really came down to bring her to Moira, she’s screwed this up.

Maybe it would be easier, when the sunny Oliver comes out, to bask and pretend.

She shoves her sunglasses on before raising her face, surprised to see a hand in her field of vision. Oliver is watching her, waiting, and he doesn’t look mad. He looks, very faintly, hurt.

She so totally screwed this up.

* * *

Moira sits at her desk and looks carefully at both of them for an uncomfortable moment before she swivels her monitor screen. “You should both watch this first.”

Felicity closes her eyes behind her dark sunglasses, silently begging that it’s not some other terrorist snuff film. She’s seen enough death and destruction today. Then, she glances sideways at Oliver’s impassive face — no clues there — before she focuses on the screen.

The familiar white walls of Intake frame the view of two metal chairs, likely bolted to the ground. Two people sit, strapped to the chairs, yet still managing to slouch and project a seriously badass vibe. The male is wearing a black suit and a sneer. There is a smudge of crimson where his lower lip has split open. The female is wearing black too, but much of it is leather and her hair is a washed out lavender. She sighs.

The man breaks his death stare at the two guards near the door and looks at her.

She blows him a kiss, and he licks his lip. He apparently enjoys the tang of blood, because he licks it again.

“After we fuck them up, let’s celebrate like Tangiers, baby.”

“Only if you let me cut that bitch there.” She nods towards the guard on the left with a predatory grin.

“All yours, baby girl.”

“So good to me, hon’.”

They are both working hard to intimidate the guards when the door creaks open, and it almost works, except Felicity has had to escape from those bonds once before, and she knows that they aren’t making the right use of the time they’ve been given to stew. Sure enough, in walks Moira. Felicity knows that Moira conducts interrogations, but she’s never seen one before and finds it hard to believe. When she debriefs with the elegant older woman, it’s all tea, probing questions, and uncomfortable silences, but it’s never been _scary_.

Moira carries no weapons. She doesn’t stop and posture in front of the couple. Instead she begins to speak as she circles them, and all bravado dies on their lips at her words.

“In sixty seconds, you’ll be separated; you’ll never see each other again. The first to talk will go free. The other will never see the light of day.”

She continues out of the room without a backwards glance before the video cuts out.

“Michael and Nikita Samuelle: assassins for hire. Married for just under two years. Both have individual records stretching back into middle school, but their love affair has only accentuated their passion for destruction. Judging from the fresh scratch marks on their backs, it’s safe to say their relationship is equally passionate. They’re to join Phieser’s team by the end of the week. You two will take their place.”

Felicity chokes on her involuntary laugh while Oliver nods.

“Wait, won’t he know we aren’t them?”

“Phieser has never met Michael and Nikita, and identity is not advertised in their line of work. They were introduced by a mutual associate, and we’ve plugged that hole. It won’t be a problem.”

Felicity turns towards Oliver, hoping for some support, but he is already moving to a pair of mannequins dressed like the couple in Intake.

She follows after him, pitching her voice low and tugging on his sleeve, “Aren’t you worried about this?”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve played a role, Felicity.” He almost turns away before he catches her eyes. Something he sees there stops him, and he turns squarely to speak to her. “Don’t worry. We’ll be together; I’ll have your back.” A bit louder he continues, “We’ll be in and out within a week.”

“Very likely,” Moira agrees, still watching them from her desk.

Felicity jumps away, realizing that she’s been resting her hand on the warmth of Oliver’s bicep and his movement has brought them _very_ close together. She turns to the leather-covered female mannequin and fingers the spiked silver necklace with great interest.

“Phieser is unpredictable in most respects, but he has aggressive appetites. He will hit on you, Felicity.”

Felicity snorts, then whirls to face Moira when she realizes the woman is completely serious. Oliver’s palm lands between her shoulder blades, its radiating heat melting some of her sudden tension.

“He may hit on you, too, Oliver.”

Hysterical laughter threatens to burst from her again as she checks Oliver’s reaction to _that_. 

He grunts, his face impassive as his hand begins to rub small circles on her back.

“You’ll need to convince him that you are truly a young couple in love,” Moira advises. Her voice is growing closer, but Felicity keeps her eyes on Oliver now, trying to figure out what he really thinks of this ridiculous arrangement. “He’ll still see your relationship as a challenge, but he will respect it as well.” Oliver is looking down at her, but she still can’t read the emotions behind his eyes. “These will help,” Moira offers, holding up a small envelope between them.

Oliver blinks and takes it, shaking the contents into his palm. That large, warm palm that she totally _does not_ miss on her back. Two rings in some shiny silver metal. Platinum.

He holds them out to her.

Oh. _Oh._

Wedding rings.

She grabs one at random and slides it over her left ring finger, trying to be cool about this as Moira watches them intently.

“It’s too big.” Shoot. They’ll have to get somebody else.

“Here,” Oliver offers, taking her hand in his, and slides the other ring neatly over her finger where it, of course, fits perfectly.

It’s such a mockery, such a sham, and Felicity can’t let it go unremarked. “Do I have to promise to love, honor, and obey?”

Oliver’s hand tightens on hers for a moment, before he releases her. “Just ‘obey.’”

“Well,” Felicity backs up from his orbit again, watching his indifferent mask settle into place. “That’s okay. It’s only ‘till death do we part.”

Oliver takes a breath, but Moira beats him to it.

“Let’s see you two kiss,” she requests calmly.

“We’ll be _fine_ ,” Oliver growls, and it’s the least calm she’s ever seen him around Moira. Of course, her pulse just picked up, too.

“I know you will,” Moira is unfazed as she still looks on, expectantly.

Oliver is still glaring, so Felicity sighs — no big deal, right? — and goes up onto her toes. One hand grips his right shoulder while the other lands on his left cheek, coaxing him to be calm as she aims for a chaste peck on the corner of his stupidly kissable lips. Only Oliver turns into her, his first hand returning to her back, while the other falls lower at inner curve of her waist, and his lips are fully _there_ by the time hers reach him.

It’s still technically chaste.

There are no tongues. It lasts only a heartbeat. She barely even sighs again, at the end.

And if Oliver hadn’t been holding her, she probably would have collapsed in a puddle at his feet.

Because, god, does he smell nice, and, hell, his lips were so soft and so warm, and she could still feel them, and she _wanted more_.

It’s all for show, Felicity.

She turns to Moira with a saucy grin, as if to say ‘See? No problem! I could fake kiss Oliver all day!’

Moira is watching them with a small smile that sends chills down Felicity’s spine for reasons she can’t name.

“Good,” Moira pronounces, returning to her desk. “Transport will be leaving in three hours. Study your downloads and be ready to go.”

Oliver hasn’t said a thing since the kiss. Now he lets his hands drop from her body slowly and takes advantage of their proximity to whisper, “We can talk more in the car.”

With a nod to Moira, he leaves.

Felicity is about to follow when something occurs to her.

“Moira?”

“Hum?” She is already consumed by something at her terminal.

“Which one of them talked?”

Moira looks up with a broad, warm smile. “They both did, of course.”

Felicity nods as if the ‘of course’ had occurred to her as well. She really can’t remember how the Prisoner’s Dilemma is supposed to work. “So then, who goes free?”

Moira tilts her head, saying nothing. She waits for the answer to come to Felicity.

Michael and Nikita are low level thugs in fancy clothes. They are nothing to Section, yet they’ve seen faces and parts of the operation. So yes, it is clear now…

Neither would ever leave Section alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver struggles to keep his emotions in check as he and Felicity infiltrate a terrorist cell as married assassins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm super excited that so many people are interested in this world. I’ll be back with chapter three next week.

The hired limo drops them at the gate of Phieser’s compound, fifty-two miles from the city, far off the state highway, and deep within wooded foothills. A gruff voice over the intercom tells them to wait for pick-up, and the heavy, iron gate remains stubbornly closed.

Oliver hefts their duffle bags while Felicity inspects the fence line. Chain-link, topped with razor wire, and likely electrified, the fence disappears into the autumnal forest: Oliver diagnoses the security system quickly, knowing they’ll be kept waiting at least ten minutes as a dominance play. So while Felicity squints at the rusted warning signs, he takes this quiet moment to observe her.

They’ve dyed her hair a soft, candy pink and enhanced its natural curl, creating a corona of whimsy at odds with the hard edge of the rest of her undercover wear. The black leather top is cut like plate armor, hugging her curves but leaving her toned arms exposed to the cool fall air. Thick layers of silver chain links drape her neck and chest while matching rings flash on her fingers as she taps them against her thigh. Fuck, those thighs are practically painted in tight black leather, and his pulse skips as he takes this unfettered moment to fully appreciate the effect.

This is how they dress her on her sixth mission into the lion’s den of a confirmed pervert. _Assholes_.

A scowl is twisting his face when she turns and cocks a challenging eyebrow.

He stalks forward and deposits the bags at her feet before raising his eyes to the camera mounted on the top of the gate.

“They’ll be here soon.” He sounds bored, looks bored, as he takes the chance to raise his hand to her cheek and stroke its curve.

“Wired for sound?” she whispers.

He shrugs. It doesn’t matter. She had a chance to talk in the car ride up, but they sat in silence instead. Oliver knows she’s not comfortable with this pretense, so he’ll respect her boundaries as much as he can while still pretending to be in love. For the mark. It’s for her protection that they sell it, but he’ll let her take the lead when he can.

“It’s beautiful here,” she says.

Oliver looks past the tactical realities and really observes the forest for the first time. Autumn colors run riot through the boughs of chestnuts, ash, and maple. It reminds him suddenly of home and the winding road up to Queen Manor in the fall before the rains begin in earnest. He remembers tromping through the sweet rot of their fallen leaves, trailing after Thea as she raced ahead, then bringing home a bounty of gold, red, and burnt umber foliage for Raisa to help them press and keep in a memory book.

The slight pressure of Felicity’s hand seeking his jolts him back to the present. She’s looking up at him, eyes too wide to hide any guile.

“Yes, beautiful,” he agrees.

The whine of a small engine approaches from up the drive.

“Show time,” she mutters, putting a bit of swagger in her stance and draping his arm around her shoulders as she turns to face the gate. She weaves her fingers through his, holding his hand over her heart, and he lets her. Just following her lead.

A golf cart with a white hardtop roof zips down the curve of the road on the other side of the gate. For a second, Oliver is sure the idiot thug driving is going to crash the thing, but he uses the handbrake to skid to a stop. Likely stripping the brake pads on the way.

“What are you doing here?” The moronic driver stands, one foot still on the little car’s floor plate, one hand resting casually on his hip, ready to draw on them if needed.

“Michael and Nikita. We’re here for the job,” Oliver says, cutting through his crap.

“Who says we’re hiring?” The goon struts up to the gate, hands still on the back of his hips, lifting up his windbreaker. He’s trying to stare Oliver down.

Oliver firms his stance — ready for this pissing contest — and begins to untangle himself from Felicity.

“We’re here for the opening in the kitchen,” Felicity’s voice cuts through the testosterone, and she tightens her fingers around Oliver’s, raising them to her lips. “You haven’t lived till you try his chicken cordon bleu.” He can hear the smirk in her voice, but he’s more focused on the sensation of her _sucking_ his knuckle between her lips.

The hard-ass on the other side busts up laughing. “Okay, okay. Shit, that’s a good one.” He hits the gate control and moves forward. “Name’s Luke.” He extends his hand.

Oliver withholds for a second, then shakes with a firm grip. Felicity follows suit.

They load up the cart, and Oliver makes sure to take the front seat with Luke, letting Felicity have the back with easy access to their weapons in the duffle bags.

The gate shuts silently behind them, putting a lie to the rusted signs, and Luke takes off up the twisting road.

“You’ll love this gig. I know we’re out here in Satan’s asshole, but we’ve got full wi-fi. Netflix. Some Blu-Rays. You watch _Game of Thrones_?”

He can sense Felicity about to gush, so he cuts in. “We’re here to do a job, not watch videos.”

“Shit, man. You can do both.”

The cart shoots through a gap in the trees, revealing a clear cut area surrounding a large stone house. A few other outbuildings can be seen in the tree line, but it is clear that this McMansion is Phieser’s place.

Oliver spots several men and dogs patrolling the grounds.

“Wow,” Felicity gasps.

“I know, right?” Luke nods enthusiastically. “Phieser’s filthy with cash. Got a personal chef, though we grunts mostly make do with prepped meals or instant.” He slams on the breaks, though he forgoes the handbrake method this time, sending gravel skittering down the driveway in front of the massive doors.

“When do we find out about the job?”

“Well aren’t you just an eager beaver.” Luke shakes his head. “Gotta meet the boss first. Think of it a job interview.” He winks at Felicity.

“So I should imagine them naked?” she blurts out.

Oliver winces, but Luke hoots. “I bet he’d love that, honey.”

As Luke turns his back and leads them into the house, Felicity mouths “I’m sorry.”

By instinct, his arm wraps around her middle, finger tips slipping over all that leather and a thin band of skin peeking between waistband and top. He drops a quick kiss on her temple.

A minute later, they step out onto a wide, second-story veranda, overlooking the drive and a sweeping view of the undulating sea of fire that is the autumnal forest. To their left, a young woman reclines on a chaise lounge, sipping a pink cocktail, while a balding man who can only be Phieser leans against the stone railing, surveying his domain. A tumbler of amber liquid rests near his left hand, but he makes no move to drink or turn at their obvious approach.

Oliver tightens his hold on Felicity.

“Hey, boss, this is Michael and Nikita.” Luke fades into the background, blocking their exit into the house.

Phieser turns. He’s wearing some kind of red silk smoking jacket over a faded band T-shirt. He’s lost a bit more of his pale red hair since Section’s headshot, but his jowls are the same baggy pieces of unused flesh. His lips are thin as he looks them over from head to toe, lingering too long on Felicity. Grabbing his drink, he saunters towards them and takes a sip. He licks the residue from his lower lip and breathes his words with 80 proof fumes.

“You’re late.”

“Couldn’t be avoided,” Oliver answers, staring him down, dragging the creep’s washed-out blue eyes from Felicity.

“Yeah?” Phieser keys in on Oliver. “Not very professional.”

“I’m happy to demonstrate our work.”

Phieser’s goons shift at this, while the man himself narrows his eyes.

“What is it with these guys, Michael?” Felicity cuts in again. “Are they all compensating for something?”

Oliver bites the inside of his cheek as Phieser’s gaze swings back to Felicity.

“This your wife?”

“Yes.” Oliver claims her with words and deed, splaying his hand across the curve of her hip. He hears her breath catch and hopes that she’ll _stay quiet_.

“Quite a mouth on her,” Phieser observes, not entirely disapprovingly.

Felicity smiles back at him, though Oliver feels the hand on his back ball the material of his suit jacket.

Phieser examines them for a long moment.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he concludes. “See Mitch on your way out. He’ll take care of your fee for coming out.”

“That’s it?” asks Felicity.

But Phieser has already turned away, passing his empty tumbler to the girl on the chaise who sets down her magazine with a “Humph,” and sashays towards the wet bar.

Oliver’s senses go into overdrive. He hears Felicity’s sighed “Whatever,” with the relieved undertone. He sees Luke whisper to someone inside before turning back to them. He hears Phieser’s woman saying something like “Too bad, they were pretty.”

As they walk to the golf cart, Oliver pulls Felicity closer to him, bending down to whisper into the shell of her ear, “They have no intention of letting us leave here alive.”

He gives her credit. The fear only lasts a second in her eyes before she flicks open a set of black on black shades and blows him a kiss.

She grins at Luke as she sits shotgun this time, angling her body towards him and stretching her legs on the dashboard in a way that maximizes their length. Oliver recognizes the textbook seduction tricks, knows why she is using them, and pushes down the tight feeling, low in his belly, that makes him want to punch Luke for grinning back like a fool.

Time for that soon enough.

Felicity waits until they are screened from the house by the first corps of trees, babbling on about Starks and the Lannisters as only she can, leaning into Luke who appreciates the attention.

At least until she jerks her leg up while bracing herself on the seatback and drives her knee into his face. Oliver wraps his arm around Luke’s neck and grabs the gun from his pants — stupid place to keep a gun unless you want to blow your ass off — while Felicity takes the steering wheel and applies the much-abused brakes.

Luke passes out with a frustrating ease, and Oliver wouldn’t mind finishing him off, but they are technically on the same team still and he knows Felicity wouldn’t like it. Oliver settles for none-to-gently rolling him into the bushes for his nap.

Felicity grabs her weapon from their duffle and joins him in the cover of the trees. Her eyes are a bit frantic, but she is holding herself together extremely well in the face of this curveball. He almost tells her so, but they need to stay focused now.

“There are three guards with clear line of sight between here and the house. We’ll subdue them, then you’ll cover me while I _renegotiate_ our contract.”

She nods and follows him through the brush, nearly as quiet as he is.

* * *

Oliver slides through the empty corridors of Phieser’s mansion, hugging the walls. Most of the guards seem to be out, likely looking for him and Felicity, but he won’t assume anything with the stakes so high.

He’s left Felicity standing over the body of the third guard with a liberated submachine gun in her hands. She wiggled her fingers at him before he darted across the lawn.

He needs to end this now.

The guard at the top of the stairs is bored enough to be focused on his cell phone, playing some sort of game. The dangers of providing free wi-fi, he supposes as he taps the man on the shoulder.

“Do you have the time?”

“Wha—” Before he completes the word, Oliver plows his fist into the side of his jaw. A choke hold would be quieter, but he just really needs to hit something right now. This little test, this runaround, Most Dangerous Game shit is irritating as hell.

The cell phone clatters to the tile floor as Oliver eases the fall of the heavier man, but no one comes running to investigate. The doors to the veranda stand wide open to the oncoming twilight.

Oliver crouches low and peers out. No guards.

The girl is rummaging through the hinged ottoman, pulling out a blanket. Her back is turned, which leaves Phieser’s back exposed.

The asshole is holding a long-barreled hunting rifle and sighting through the scope, sweeping the forest. A walkie rests near his drink, squawking occasionally, providing excellent cover as Oliver pads closer to him. The fucker is probably planning on maiming him and having his boys take Felicity. It would be so damn easy just to snap his flabby neck and interrogate the girl until they find the virus.

But that is far off mission.

He never goes off mission.

What is wrong with him?

He still takes great pleasure in sliding up behind the older man and jamming the muzzle of his pistol into the man’s cheek.

“Audition’s over. Call off your men.”

Phieser attempts to nod, and Oliver using the movement to grind the steel of his gun into his jaw bone. He holds the radio up to Phieser’s face.

Static crackles as Phieser presses the send button. “Abort and return to base. Michael and Nikita are cleared.”

A few moments later, Felicity emerges from the woods, following a fourth guard with the her rifle trained on his back. Her pink hair flutters in the breeze, highlighted by the setting sun, and she grins up at Oliver on the veranda.

Oliver finally steps back, releasing his new “boss” and letting his hard-learned calm descend across his face and body.

Phieser rubs his neck as he turns. “Erikson said you two were good.” He pops his neck and grins. “Welcome to the team.”

* * *

Since Luke is still finishing his nap, Oliver and Felicity follow Mitch along a tree-lined path towards one of the outbuildings.

Oliver takes the measure of the smaller man in front of him. Light on his feet, Mitch walks with a spring in his step and thoughtful control of his arm movements. He’d be a challenge in a fight. The man is quiet, too. He says nothing after “Follow me,” until they’ve reached a single door with a large frosted glass window.

“We call this the honeymoon suite.” He winks. “Normally we just use it if one of us gets lucky, but Phieser thought you two would be more comfortable with a double bed.”

Felicity’s small hand falls between his shoulder blades, and Oliver wraps his arm around her again.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t stay up too late though. We roll out at seven.” He pins a manilla envelope to Oliver’s chest. “Details are in there.” Oliver catches the packet as Mitch drops it and walks away, this time whistling a jaunty pop tune that Oliver can’t be bothered to place.

He follows Felicity into the cabin suite. A short hallway opens into a small seating area of monochromatic, uncomfortable furniture, but the real focal point is around the corner in the shape of a large queen bed piled high with red cushions. An ajar door leads to the connecting restroom.

Felicity has paused in the middle of the room with her duffle bag still hanging from her shoulder. But before Oliver can take on the task of helping her come to grips with that bed, before _he_ can start to process that bed, his instinctual sweep of the room has identified a more immediate threat.

Oliver grabs one of the small chairs and throws it into the corner of the room. Hopping up on the rickety thing, he yanks out the video cables of the small camera pointed at the bed. For good measure, he strips off his suit jacket and drapes it over the lens like it’s the world’s most awkward coat hanger.

Felicity’s mouth is hanging open few centimeters when he turns back to face her.

“We should look for others.”

She shudders, but pulls a hand-held frequency detector out of her duffle. He lets her sweep as he shakes open the envelope over the bed. Glossy photos and a scant time table mix with a few blueprints. Oliver pieces the mission together quickly.

“That was the only one.” She joins him, plopping down on the red velvet comforter and picks up a shot of the front of the targeted office building.

“They’re hitting the DeAnza building in downtown, tomorrow at 10.”

“God,” she mutters, “how many people?”

“Likely a few thousand on a Tuesday morning. It’s mostly corporate offices.”

She catches his gaze. “Good thing we’re here to stop it then.”

There’s an edge to her tone and a sharpness to her eyes that implies that Section’s reaction had better not be in question. Oliver would love to rescue every last one of those people. Hell, he joined Section to save the big numbers, to work the big picture.

He nods.

Tension rolls off of Felicity as she rubs her hands down her leather clad thighs, and he tries not to think about the soft cushions behind her or the softness of her lips.

“Are you going to do it, or should I?”

“Huh?”

Her brow furrows with confusion. “The info drop? John should be in position soon.”

“Right.” Of course that’s what she meant. So, does he leave her here in this dank love den or ask her to traipse through the woods at night to rendezvous with John?

“I’ll go,” he offers. “See if you can gain system access through the wifi without triggering any alarms. Identify the power supply and any backdoors into the system.”

He leaves her there, on the large, red, ‘honeymoon’ bed, surrounded by pictures of a doomed building and evil plots.

He takes his duffle to the bathroom, and shuts the door. Before he pulls on the black tee and beanie, Oliver splashes his face with cold water and watches it drip down his face.

“Get a grip,” he commands his reflection.

He’s been off this whole mission, if he admits it to himself. He’s too keyed in on Felicity, even for an enamored husband. He’s ready to break the face of any guy who looks at her, when she’s _supposed_ to be the distraction. He almost _killed_ the mark because it would be easier. And now he really wants to make sure that everyone in the DeAnza building is safe tomorrow, when he should be thinking about Red Cell’s crimes, about the horrible things AlphaOmega can do in a wider environment.

Remembering Akio, blood running from his ears, breathing his last as his mother screamed over him, Oliver finally feels like himself. Like the person he’s been for the last three years. He knows what needs to be done, and he knows that Felicity is smart enough to see it in the end.

He yanks the T-shirt over his scarred torso and leaves their rooms with a terse order to, “Lock up after me.”

* * *

After a quick two mile jog through the undergrowth, Oliver reaches the break in Phieser’s fence line and slips under the divide, dashing a few more feet to the dark van. John is ready, opening the door and giving him a hand up.

It takes a few seconds for Oliver’s eyes to adjust when the indoor light pops on. When they do, he notes John giving him the once over.

“How’s married life?”

Oliver just groans.

“‘Bout like I thought then.” John smirks. “I brought you a wedding present.” He offers a small round device, about size and shape of a golf ball: Section’s standard explosive charge for jobs like this.

“And we didn’t even register,” Oliver deadpans.

“Hey, when you know the couple like I know you two…” John is still trying to read him. He’s neither as subtle or as sinister as Moira, but it still gets under Oliver’s skin. “Seriously, man, how are you doing?”

“It’s the DeAnza building on 34th at 10 hundred. They’re only placing one canister, but placed correctly it will take anyone in the building.”

John rolls with the change in topic and keys the information into his uplinked computer so that Curtis can begin running sims. “Does she know?”

Oliver shakes his head and gets ready to return before he is missed. He’s about to kill the lights and open the door when John stops him with a firm hand on the shoulder.

“Oliver, you’ve got to prepare her. We can maneuver a few hundred, cut down the death toll, but you know we can’t do anything that will tip off Phieser.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” Oliver shrugs off John’s hand, and challenges his earnest gaze, letting his anger burn through to the surface for once. “If I tell her the truth, she’ll try to do something to stop it. She’ll get herself _killed_ , get them killed anyway, and Phieser will laugh all the way to the slaughter house.”

Resignation settles over John, but he tries a final time, “She might surprise you.”

“She surprises me every day.” The second the admission is out of his mouth, Oliver plunges the van into darkness and disappears into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity is faced with the grim results of Section’s "big picture” philosophy when terrorist plan to strike a downtown office building.

Felicity pretends to be asleep when Oliver returns from the info drop.

No small part of the reason is the joke that Moira packed for her. She will never again leave Section base without checking through her _whole_ pack. Especially the clothes. Especially on overnights with Oliver. Because Nikita Samuelle may well wear leather underwear and black scraps of lace to bed, but Felicity Smoak thinks that’s taking the playacting on this mission a little too method.

So she’s under the covers in one of Oliver’s long, warm Henley’s and a pair of black satin panties, when he slips into the room like the spy he is. He pauses for a moment when he rounds the corner, and she keeps her breathing long and even, facing the bathroom, away from the entry hall. He moves again, grabs a few things from his bag and disappears into the restroom. She can breathe normally for a moment.

Oh, god, what if she snores in her sleep? It’s been years since she’s slept with anyone in the same room. Cooper used to claim that she made these “cute little snort noises” when she shifted position.

Wait… shifting position? She _always_ moves around the bed the first time she sleeps in a new place. What if she does something disgraceful in her sleep and sprawls herself all over Oliver? What if she has one of _those_ dreams, only this time he’s right there, smelling like he does, all warm muscles and probably delicious skin.

What if —

The bathroom door pops open, and a beam of light falls over her. She flinches reflexively, but hides the reflex with a rub of her face and burrows deeper into the covers. The light goes out.

She hears him circling the bed, and she takes a chance to peek at him under the shadow of her hand. In the silvered light from the frosted skylights, she catches sight of his bare chest. Oh, wow. The moonlight traces the curves of muscles she has felt but never seen. His arms are twin monuments to strength and beauty. His pecs and collarbone beg to be explored with fingers, lips, and tongue. And his abs: they are a carved, marble ladder to heaven… or to hell.

She’s forgotten to breathe like a sleeping person. It is all she can do to resist running screaming into the night as she feels his weight settle on the other side of the bed.

The sound of Oliver’s breathing fills her ears. It slows. Felicity finds herself matching it as her eyelids fall shut again.

As crazy as this is: playing married, playing assassins, at the mercy of a psychotic wacko, Felicity feels safe. Oliver is between her and the door. Oliver knows how to handle these people. If Oliver can sleep, then she can too.

She sighs, stretching her toes and snuggling into her pillow one last time before drifting to sleep to his calm breathing.

* * *

Her body is warm and relaxed when consciousness returns. She doesn’t quite want to move yet, so she opens eyes slowly in the predawn dark. An expanse of male flesh stretches out beneath her cheek.

Oh, god.

A bolt of tension jolts through her body, but she works to contain the instinct to jump up and away from Oliver. She processes what her ears — and _other_ parts in contact with him — are telling her brain. His breathing is still even. His magnificent body is as relaxed as hers. He is still asleep. Felicity can still extricate herself without this becoming _awkward_.

She takes a moment to take stock anyway.

Her head is pillowed by his firm but comfortable left shoulder and bicep. His arm is wrapped somehow around her back so that his — oh, my — his fingers are just so slightly brushing the small of her back where the Henley shirt has risen up in the night. She is turned into his warmth, and her top leg has slid between the pillars of his thighs. She does _not_ think about how close her knee is to madness. For all this, thanks to the long-sleeved shirt and his soft sweatpants, they aren’t actually touching skin to skin except for her face and his damnable fingertips.

His chest continues to rise and fall with infinite peace. As the dawn brightens, Felicity makes out faint, shimmering lines chasing along the curves of his glorious muscles like fractured lightning. It takes her pre-coffee brain a few seconds to process that they are scars, old and deep, and so, so _many_.

She slowly raises her head, squinting through the morning light. Her hand almost reaches out to touch some sort of claw mark on the curve of his pectoral before her rational mind halts its movement. She slowly extracts her leg and raises her torso onto her right elbow, biting her lower lip as Oliver’s fingers flex slightly against her skin when her back pulls away. His face remains calm.

God, his face is beautiful when it it is relaxed like this, at peace. Sure, it’s beautiful at practically any time, but she almost thinks that this could be a glimpse of who he was _before_. Before the scars, and the training, and the horror, and the need to be _on_ for so many hours of the day. A part of her could watch him like this for hours.

Which would be _stupid_.

But Felicity can’t resist the opportunity for one, small touch. She watches his eyelids for any signs of wakefulness as she lets her fingertips fall onto his chest, onto the path of the claw scars that arc up to the multi-pointed star tattoo. Combined, they look like a shooting star. It’s like the horrible histories that placed them there have joined to create a work of art. She can only marvel at the warm, beautiful flesh beneath her hand.

Oliver sighs.

She jerks back, but his eyes are still closed when she checks them. A faint smile curves the corner of his full lips, though.

Felicity’s eyes narrow, and she carefully works her way out of the circle of his arms and over to the cold side of the bed.

Oliver stays still and calm, but she trusts him less. She keeps one eye on him as she grabs her duffle and makes a run for the bathroom.

She leans against the inside of the door, wishing the firmness of the wood would infuse her spine and help steel her for a day of playing a brash killer with an extreme affection for leather. Not to mention an affection for the deadly man on the other side of the door.

No problem.

* * *

Three hours later, their dinged-up black van finally pulls up to a curb in downtown. Luke still hasn’t learned how to apply breaks, so Felicity is thrown against Oliver’s right side as the vehicle jerks to a stop. He wraps an arm around her nonchalantly, casting his gaze around her to the front of the van where Phieser sits.

Phieser has spent most of the drive on his phone, texting, checking news feeds, and who knows what else.

Felicity has spent most of the drive trying to ignore the bag full of gas masks and the heavy metal “toolbox” in the middle of the van.

Now Phieser turns to the assembled crew and nods to Mitch and Jon, who are both dressed in some form of generic repair jumpsuit. They begin unstrapping the toolbox, pocketing a gas mask each and tossing one to Phieser.

“You two,” he nods at Oliver and Felicity, “stay put and keep your eyes open. Luke, man the wheel.” He opens the side door.

“You brought us here just to watch the car?” Oliver gives voice to Felicity’s incredulity.

Phieser turns back with exaggerated slowness. “Well, now, I wasn’t sure when you two lovebirds were going to show up, was I? Now watch the perimeter like a good boy, and earn your paycheck.”

Jon smirks at them as he and Mitch jump from the back of the truck.

The van is paneled, with dark tinting on the back windows, so Felicity feels vindicated in following after them. Can’t watch the perimeter from inside a metal can, after all. Oliver follows her.

They watch the three men walk across the street and up a series of wide cement steps into the ten story office building. Felicity tenses when she sees a mother and a young boy approach the entrance from the south. 

Where are Section’s people?

She take a step forward and feels Oliver’s hand on her bare shoulder. Before she can shrug him off, a man in a tan trench coat runs up the steps, calling out to the woman. They hug and move away from the entrance, likely to some appointment or an early lunch.

Felicity meets Oliver’s gaze, and his hand drops from her as he quickly glances away.

Something just feels _off_. She side steps further away from Luke and the van as she surveys the building. Drawn blinds and reflective coating on many of the windows make it difficult to ascertain what is happening inside. The goldfish bowl effect of the glassed-in lobby indicates an certain vacancy, but she distrusts it.

“It’s clear, right?” she whispers to Oliver.

“Felicity…” he chides with a subtle nod to the van.

She turns on him, bouncing into his line of sight with all her pent up worry.

He tries to look away, to keep his calm mask in place, so she reaches up, cupping his cheek, bringing the edge of her black nails to bear on the surface of his frustrating cheekbones while her thumb rests in the small dimple of his chin. His eyes lock with hers.

“Is everyone out of the building or not?”

There is an _edge_ to her voice that would not have been their two years ago. She’s learned well, and now her words can shred.

Oliver says nothing, but she sees the shadows within his eyes, feels the jerk when his muscles jump beneath her fingers.

“Thousands of people.” Her vision blurs slightly, but her cheeks are hot.

Oliver grabs her shoulders, maneuvering her stiff form behind a tan sedan. “Phieser has enough virus to take out this whole city center. Until we know his full plans—”

“Thousands!” She’s using her loud voice now, and Oliver’s fingers are starting to cut into her arms.

Then Oliver’s gaze flickers over her shoulder, and she turns to see what is so damn important.

Mitch and Jon are skipping down the steps, and the toolbox swinging lightly from Jon’s hand. Her eyes cut up to the windows, and she sees it: four stories up, something presses against the window blinds. Three pairs of hands break through as bodies press, searching desperately for the window release that will let in life giving air. The window release that is not _there_.

Mitch is smirking as he grows closer, noting how closely she and Oliver are standing.

Before he can get a word out, Felicity snatches the gas mask from his limp fingers and pushed past him into the building.

“What the fuck?”

She knows Oliver is coming after her, but she doesn’t care.

The virus can’t sweep the building that quickly.

She can still save _someone_.

Felicity pushes through the revolving door and scans the vacant lobby. A booted foot sticks out from behind the reception desk. No chance there. She runs to the elevator, pounding on the call buttons and searching for any movement.

Are there emergency stairs? Is there enough time to use them?

“Fel — Nikita!”

She registers Oliver’s voice just before one of the elevator doors spills a mess of humanity upon her. She goes down under desperate hands clawing with bloody nails. Wheezing gasps and frantic clatters abuse her ears.

The woman on top of her wears a smart blue dress and a tight blonde ponytail. Her eyes bleed as the light goes out behind them. Felicity wants to rip off her gas mask to save her, but it’s too late.

It’s too late for any of them.

She’s buried in her failure.

“Felicity.” Muffled by his mask, desperate with worry, she hears Oliver as he slides his hands under her arms and pulls her free.

Her legs refuse to work for a moment, and she staggers back against him. He wraps her in his arms from behind, his body a pillar of strength behind her.

The last body stops moving on the cold marble floor.

Felicity turns in Oliver’s arms, drags herself up his body, making handholds from fistfuls of his suit jacket.

The building is silent.

His face is a blur behind the clouded visor of his mask.

She can just make out his, “I’m sorry.”

Then a cough sounds from down the hallway. Phieser staggers from the men’s restroom door. His gas mask is in place, but there is a bloody gash at his temple.

Oliver looks her up and down, and she nods.

They move towards the terrorist. Oliver grabs Phieser under an arm. Felicity takes the other side, and they support him out of the hell he’s created and into the cold morning.

* * *

Mitch has apologized for leaving his boss behind about five times before they reach the compound, but it doesn’t save him a sucker punch to the gut when they all disembark. Despite his irritation with his crew, Phieser is in good spirits. Red Cell has already claimed responsibility for the attack via a splinter cell. The first payment has been wired.

1,423 people are confirmed dead.

Phieser has just finished inviting Michael and Nikita — his saviors — to a celebratory dinner when the urge to vomit sweeps over Felicity, and she takes off into the woods. She hears someone behind her and picks up the pace, her steel-toed combat boots squelching through the undergrowth with no finesse but lots of speed.

She just needs to be _away_.

The afternoon sun cuts through the trees in harsh beams of bright light, so Felicity pushes her sunglasses higher up her nose and keeps to the shadows, tugging through red-orange puddles of rot and decay. The patrolling guards take one look at her face and move off in other directions. After ten minutes she finds a chain-link fence blocking her trajectory, so she skirts it, moving higher into the foothills, along the perimeter of the compound.

At one point she stumbles, falling with a wet splat into the muddy, leaf-covered ground. She digs her fingers into the earth, and it literally grounds her.

Standing with deliberation, wiping the muck from her hands along the thighs of her leather pants, she surveys her location. She’s at least a mile out from the house now, and a rough, rocky cliff runs parallel to the fence. Felicity squints, assessing, then begins to climb a series of step-like outcroppings that form a scar in the mossy granite. 

She looks back only once when movement catches in her peripheral vision. Oliver has broken through the trees and continues to follow her. She pulls herself up the final six feet and sits atop a smooth boulder, swinging her feet over the drop as she waits for him.

She still hates heights, but they are the least of the things she hates today.

Felicity recognizes her detachment she watches Oliver climb up the rock face towards her, but it’s currently a choice between this and falling apart into a million pieces.

He pauses as his head reaches the level of her mud-streaked boots and looks up at her. There is no judgement in his eyes. Nor is there much in the way of apology. And Felicity realizes that this — how she is feeling now — is the expression that Oliver wears almost every day in Section.

She reaches down holding out a hand.

He grips her wrist just past the leather cuff. Dried dirt flakes off her fingers and onto his white dress shirt as she holds him. He doesn’t really give her any of his weight, pulling himself up with his other arm and the flexing of his thighs until he sits next to her and they are both staring off, over the high chain fence, across bright day and the fiery forest.

“I hate this job,” Felicity says.

At the same time, Oliver blurts out, “Phieser’s an ass.”

She looks at Oliver and just bursts out laughing. She’s bordering on hysterical right now, but the irritation in Oliver’s voice just then was so _human_ that it makes her want to cry.

His arm falls around her shoulders — suit jacket sleeve sliding across black biker-leather — and she leans into him because his warmth is one of the few things that makes sense to her right now, even though it’s a sense that leaves her more off-balance.

“We do help people,” he whispers against her temple.

Felicity jerks back and glares. “Section knew ‘where’ and ‘when’ hours before the attack. They could have saved those people. They did _nothing_.”

“For the good of-”

“-No, Oliver. That was not good. _That_ ,” she jabs a finger south over the trees, “was _wrong_. That was evil.”

Oliver stares straight ahead and speaks by rote, “More people will be saved because those people died. We will take his supply, identify his supplier, cut to the root of this organization…” He trails off into uncertainty.

“You don’t really believe it.”

Oliver sighs. “I have. For so many years, I have.”

Now he’s looking at his hands, palms up in his lap. They are beautiful and strong against the black contrast of his pant legs, yet he searches as if they are strangers to him. Felicity slides her hand along his, tracing a wrinkled line curving along the mound of his palm and thumb.

“You’re a good man.” She’s not sure what prompted it, and it’s out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

Oliver’s eyes snap up to her face with a sparkle that is almost angry in its intensity. “I’m not,” he insists.

“If you weren’t, it wouldn’t hurt you so much.” She’s just as angry as he is, and she lets her voice snap at the end as she glares back at him.

“You don’t know what I’ve done, Felicity.”

“I know what you’ve done to me.”

He flinches.

“I know what they’ve made _me_ do. What they’ve made me into.”

“I was like this before Section.” He starts to turn away, to look back at the tree tops, towards the city and the dead.

“And somewhere, deep inside, you still know this is wrong.” Felicity is almost as surprised as Oliver at the certainty in her tone.

He’s back with her, again, his body turned towards her, almost looming over her as if trying to frighten her. “I killed before Section.”

“To survive.” She’s so sure.

“Tortured people,” he counters.

“They deserved it.”

He rocks back, eyes wide.

“Look, Oliver… I don’t pretend to like it, but I have learned… Sometimes, in extreme circumstances, people need to die.” She pauses, tasting the words she’s barely let herself think until now while Oliver stares at her. “There are things worth fighting for. Worth dying for.” She lifts her chin. “Worth killing for.”

Oliver processes this revelation, sucking in his bottom lip for a brief moment.

Felicity continues, “You’ve told me some horrible lies in the name of Section. Let me believe we were on a date before thrusting me into a mission. And yet I still feel that I can trust you. Why is that?”

She’s pondering out loud now, and Oliver remains mute. He honestly looks a little dumbfounded.

“I would be dead, if it wasn’t for you.”

“Felicity…”

He is holding her hand now, between his two warm palms, and she’s not sure when it happened.

“You and John, you kept me alive during those first months. And then you… you modified protocols. That time in the restaurant; that wasn’t typical.”

He swallows.

“Why did you do it?”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“ _Why?_ ”

He lifts one hand, cupping her cheek, trailing his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone as he struggles to answer.

She leans into him on instinct, focusing on his mouth, first searching for the words she wants to hear, then quickly shifting focus, thinking of how soft they feel, of the rightness of them, growing closer.

“Oh, God!” She shakes her head. “How did this become me comforting _you_?”

Oliver looks sheepish for a moment, and she almost thinks this whole thing was a play on his part.

“Did you know?”

His head stills.

“Did you know that they’d ignore the intel? That they’d let those people die?”

He nods sharply, once. “They’ve done it before. A calculated play for the greater good.”

“You know that it’s wrong.” She searches his eyes, seeking to determine the truth, no matter what he says. She shouldn’t have bothered.

“Yes,” he says simply.

And now Felicity is back to wishing the earth would swallow her whole.

“If we had done anything, we would have only added two to the body count.”

“You would have…” She could see it now: herself charging at Phieser, Oliver following after. Maybe they could have stopped them, killed Phieser and his men before the gas was set. Then Section would descend. Red Cell would contract with another supplier. The AlphaOmega would be sold to another buyer.

“There has to be another way,” she muses.

Oliver huffs, “You always say that. That’s why I —” 

A twig snaps behind them.

Oliver rolls to a crouch, a knife appearing in his hand. Felicity has drawn her gun from its shoulder holster and dropped from the boulder to the balance on the narrow ledge and present a minimal target as she sights towards the forest.

They hold their positions for a heartbeat before they spot the deer moving in the dappled shade, and they begin to laugh.

The sound sets the deer off, running through the underbrush, and Oliver and Felicity can only laugh harder as they sheath their weapons and climb to their feet.

“We should get back,” Oliver says.

Felicity sighs with resignation.

“Do we really have to go to dinner?”

“He wants to celebrate his ‘saviors.’” Oliver’s fingers form quotes as he says the final word, and the ridiculousness has Felicity breaking down into giggles.

He wraps his arm around her waist, and they stagger together through the afternoon woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading, kudoing, and commenting! I'm so happy that people are enjoying this story. As a heads up, you may have noticed that Ludus has been rated M while Amour de Soi was rated T... the upcoming chapter is why.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver and Felicity continue to play the role of married assassins, but real feelings and the repugnant demands of a terrorist threaten to throw the mission off course while lives hang in the balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mature rating for the story comes from this chapter. However, it is less for the smutty bits and more for the circumstances around them. Please note the “mildly dubious consent” tag. It is nothing that could not be shown on TV, but it may not be everyone's cup of tea.

Phieser is all smiles when they walk in the door, introducing them to his “lady,” Juliet, pushing flutes of champagne into their hands, and dancing around his living room to a jazz-funk number. It takes Felicity less than a minute to realize the man is as high as a kite.

“Come on, come on, you gotta try Antoine’s hummus! You haven’t lived ’till you do!”

His flushed, red face reminds Felicity of a bouncing balloon as he sticks his fingers into the tan dip, and licks it off with a nod to the man in chef whites who stands behind the kitchen counter. Phieser’s just happy as a clam after killing over a thousand people.

Felicity can’t resist trying to puncture him in anyway she can, so she plops sullenly into a barstool, tugging on the end of her pink pigtail, and sighs, “I like ranch dressing.”

Phieser guffaws and then drains his glass of bubbly.

“Like I said, Michael, quite a mouth on your woman.”

Oliver moves behind her, the warmth of his body radiating down the length of her bare arm. He must have done something nonverbal, like nod or shrug, because Phieser squints at him.

“How’d the two of you meet, anyway?”

They’d prepared for this question, of course. But even as Oliver draws in breath to launch the agreed backstory, Felicity blurts out, “Paris.”

Oliver huffs soft, and his hands fall onto her shoulders, part massage, part warning. She looks back at him, at his thoroughly bemused expression. It’s pretty much the visual equivalent of _where are you going with this?_

If only she knew. But there’s just something about this whole situation that makes Felicity itch. She wants to rage, but too many lives hang in the balance, so she rebels where she can. She leans back into his embrace and grins up at him, “that little cafe, just before sunset…” Felicity trails off with a dreamy sigh, daring Oliver to take the lead.

She’s not prepared for the warmth in his gaze as he slowly returns her smile. Although he is answering Phieser, he is looking only at her. “She was working on her computer. Utterly focused. Didn’t notice when her coffee arrived, didn’t notice anything, just chewed on her pen and worked on some problem. I wanted to have her focus on me like that. What would it be like to have her complete attention?”

Okay, _when_ had Oliver noticed her bad habit of nibbling pens? Was he actually describing a time in Section? She gulps, and he tilts her head so slightly like he knows how close she is to breaking character. She needs to take control of this.

“Then you spilled a latte on my keyboard!” she accuses.

“It was an accident.” He heaves a good-natured yet long-suffering sigh.

“I liked that laptop.”

“I was more interesting.” His smile is wicked.

“You were,” she agrees. “That’s why I went home with you that night.” She pushes him away playfully and spins in the stool to cover his slight choking. Imagining Oliver naked and tangled in crisp white sheets, she says, “When I woke up the next morning, I knew there would never be anyone else for me.”

She tugs at him, and he steps into her embrace, his hands falling where she drops them on her bare shoulders, his thighs brushing the inside of knees. She pulls his face down towards hers and suddenly she’s not playing anymore.

Between one gasped fragment of laughter and a quiet sigh, Felicity is kissing him. Again he follows her lead, taking nothing for granted, yet somehow anticipating her. His mouth opens to the flick of her tongue, and they are kissing soundly and thoroughly, like she’s imagined so many times before, so that the motion is both a first and familiar.

God, he tastes _good_. He is so warm, his mouth so supple, his stubble so stark, sparking along her fingertips as she pushes past the edge of his jawline. Felicity drags her fingernails through the short hair on the nape of his neck, urging him closer. The taste of him flows across her tongue and explodes in her mind. Yeah, she wouldn’t mind tasting this the rest of her life.

Then Oliver responds, opening further to her probing tongue and teasing along its side with his own. His large hands cup her cheeks, jaw, head in an embrace that is at once possessive and tender. He is no longer content to follow, but neither does he take the lead. They move together, glide together, breathe together. She’s overwhelmed by him in this moment, lost between his heartbeats, filling the space of her retreating tongue with a soft moan of longing before pulling back further to blink up at him.

He relaxes his hold, backing from where he has pressed between her legs, and she busses a swift peck against the corner of his lips to collect herself — and, yes, to taste him again — before spinning her chair slightly to face their host.

Juliet stands besides Phieser, forming a silent “wow” chased by a shot of champagne.

Phieser grunts. “Interesting.” _Asshole_ “Yeah, you see that’s interesting. Because Erikson told me that you were with him when you two met, and that he introduced you both.”

Right. Much closer to that agreed story. Never doubt Moira’s research again.

Oliver tenses, the muscles along his thigh growing tight. Oh, god, her hand is _on his thigh_.

Felicity laughs and grabs a flute of bubbly. “Erikson’s a pervert and a liar. He _wishes_ he was with me.” She takes a huge gulp and tries not to choke waiting for the chips to fall as they may. This could be it.

Phieser is still for so long, his eyes pinning her back against Oliver’s chest. The kitchen knives were too far away. Had she gotten them both killed?

He laughs like a hyena and pushes back from the island counter. “Yes, that’s my buddy Erikson! If he’d banged as many chicks as he claims, his dick would have fallen off.”

Felicity tries really hard to carve her lips into a semblance of a smile.

“Drink up!” Phieser continues, pushing a glass towards Oliver. When Oliver makes no move to claim it, he says, “Or I’ve got a full bar upstairs, if this isn’t your poison.”

“I should keep my head straight.” Phieser tilts his head, confused, so Oliver clarifies, “in case we need to go soon. For the next mission.”

Phieser waves him off with a baby carrot dipped in humus. “Oh, that. Luke’s taking care of that. Should be done by morning. Not that it will get them anything in the end. Stupid foreigners should know you can’t piss in Uncle Sam’s cornflakes and expect him to cave.” He punctuates his filth with the crunch of carrot, licking the dip from his fingers and finishing with a pop of his thumb out the side of his mouth.

“Yeah?” Oliver asks. Felicity _thinks_ she’s the only one who hears the quiver in his voice. “Where’d they decide to hit this time?”

“Bah, I don’t wanna talk about that.” Phieser pulls Juliet against him and kisses the side of her neck. The girl giggles a half second later. “Tonight’s for celebrating! We got paid! Huh, Jules? A little dinner and dancing?” His hips are wiggling with what he probably thinks is swagger.

“Just Luke? Sure he can hack it?” Felicity asks. “I mean, we took him out yesterday in a couple seconds.”

“You sure did! I’ve got plans for the two of you. You two are golden. That’s why Luke gets to do the grunt work and you get to party with me!”

Felicity smiles faintly and meets Oliver’s eyes over her champagne. _Lucky us._ Communication flows between them at lightning speed as they evaluate their options. A final micro-nod from Oliver in the older man’s direction makes it clear: they need the information if they are going to stop the larger attack and it is her job to charm it out of Phieser or who knows how many people will die.

God, her job sucks.

* * *

Felicity laughs again and mentally forces her body to relax against Phieser’s side as he leads her and Juliet up to the den. Only it’s more that she and Juliet are supporting him as he sways, almost tipping them all backward as they reach the top of the stairs. It would be so _easy_ to step away and let him fall.

But it has been surprisingly difficult to get him to talk about the virus or Red Cell. He’s the conversational equivalent of a bucking bronco, bouncing from personal question to annoying innuendo with hanging moments of deadening calm when she thinks she’s gone too far, or not far enough, and he’s about to order their deaths. Oliver helps where he can, charming Juliet, redirecting Phieser when things get tense, but this is Felicity’s arena.

So she grits her teeth to form a smile and calls for music.

A slow blues number saturates the air, and Phieser approaches Juliet with absent-’till-now devotion. The mismatched pair begin to sway, holding each other up. He swings his half-filled glass in an arc behind her back, waving Oliver closer to Felicity with a doting smile.

“Come on and dance, you two.”

Felicity doesn’t have to feign embarrassment. She’s managed to ignore Oliver’s magnetic pull during dinner by focusing on the task of charming Phieser, but there he is like a lodestone in a cool black suit and a crisp white dress shirt with an open collar.

A part of her is suddenly desperate to lick the hollow of his collar bone. Oh, god.

He steps closer. Slows. Seems confused by her hesitation.

 _Swagger_ , she reminds herself. _Nikita Samuelle is full of swagger._

She slings some sway into her hips as she glides towards him with her gaze tilted downward like a coquette. She is shy, playing confident, playing shy, and every part of her is aware of every part of him as his arms slide around her. His palms sweep upward, little fingers feathering the curve of her spine, hands winging across her shoulder blades until his forearms cage her sides and her senses take flight.

Now her front is pressed against his. Their hips move together with the rise and fall of the saxophone’s wail; their thighs pressing in syncopated splendor.

Her jaw is slack, her breathing slightly hitched as she looks up at him.

His gaze is fixed on her face like it is the most important thing in his world. Oh, god. He exulted her focus earlier, but she feels pierced by his now. Felicity bites her lip, and his eyes flicker down, even more intense than before, and how is that even possible? Her fingers are climbing the column of his throat as her mouth waters. She can’t stop thinking about his taste, about the texture of his lips, and she closes her eyes in surrender.

When his kiss doesn’t come, she drops her head back, arching her neck, and finds herself falling backwards, guided to the side by the strength of his arms. One of her hands slides limply down his spectacular arm and feels his bicep coil and stretch as Oliver rolls her torso in a circular dip, suspending her and supporting her, testing her surrender in a way that also happens to grind her pelvis into his with soul-maddening pressure. At the end of the arc Felicity snaps up as Oliver bends his knees, bringing them eye to eye for a moment before she slides down his body to the fading notes of the end of the song.

Her blood is sounding so loudly in her ears, her focus so entirely on the promise in Oliver’s eyes that it takes several seconds to recognize the slow clapping coming from the terrorist a few feet away.

“You two are _so beautiful_ together,” Juliet says with wonder.

Felicity smiles faintly at the girl, searching for her equilibrium.

“Nikita is beautiful,” Oliver remarks with the certainty with which one would normally comment on the blueness of the sky.

Felicity’s gaze clashes with his, only to find a cheeky grin on his lips, as he nods briefly and then turns to grab his drink off an end table. Her cheeks grow hot. Equilibrium will not be found for a while, it seems.

Juliet is at her elbow now, asking about where she got this ring and that necklace, and if Felicity thinks she can pull off pink hair, too.

Felicity strives to seem interested while she strains to hear the conversation between Phieser and Oliver.

“You’re a lucky man, Michael.”

“Are we done with this job?” Oliver sounds so very casual in his non sequitur, but Felicity can feel both of them watching her.

“Yeeeah,” Phieser sighs.

“Your clients got what they wanted?”

Phieser snorts. “That was never going to happen. It was all a waste of time; I knew it would be.” Felicity tightens her grip on her champagne flute as memories of this morning’s massacre flood back. “Fanatics, am I right? They’ll wipe out a few thousand more and still never get what they want.”

“What thousand?” Oliver’s voice cuts through Phieser’s slurred speech.

“Oh, watch the morning news. It’s out of my hands now. Hey, let’s not talk about money tonight, huh Mikey? Tell me, what do you think of Jules, huh?”

Felicity watches the young woman in front of her blanch slightly, her monologue on hair color slowing as she turns her face further from the two men.

“She’s all right…”

“Let me tell you a secret, huh?”

Felicity can’t stop herself from glancing their way. Her eyes lock with Oliver’s as Phieser slides his arm around his shoulders, as if he is about to whisper into his ear. Of course he’s so drunk, he forgets to modulate his hiss and everyone hears his next words. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been _aching_ to have you watch me… have sex with your wife. What’d’ya say, huh?”

She can’t keep looking. She can’t fake interest in Juliet, who’s fallen silent anyway. All she can do is spin the platinum ring on her left hand around her finger and hold her breath.

They’d get him alone. _Spin._

They could get the information. _Spin._

This was the mission. _Spin._

He’d _touch_ her, and Oliver would let him. _Spin, spin, spin._

“Just give us the money, and we’re out of here.”

What just —?

“Oh, no, no… Michael, I hate to burst your bubble, but ‘we’re out of here’s’ not an option.”

Felicity turns to face them.

Phieser is sitting on the couch, a gun held casually — almost lovingly — in his hand. Oliver isn’t even looking at him, which is… _dangerous._ He’s already mapped out ten ways to kill this man and the fact that Phieser’s not dead means all of them end messy for her and Oliver, too.

“What do you want from us?” Felicity asks.

“Hey, it’s obvious that you two have some perverse idea about Love and single partnership. I get it. I respect that —” He’s gesturing with the gun, but he honestly seems to believe his own words. “— So if you don’t want to do it _with me_ , why don’t you do it _for me_?” He grins, pointing at her, happy to have solved this little puzzle.

She promises herself that this man will die slowly.

* * *

Tonight’s walk is similar to yesterday’s, except Mitch has three friends and they are all holding a semi-automatics. Felicity trips once, and the jerk takes a long second before helping her up and passing her to Oliver.

Nobody else remarks on it, so she chances a small smile for Oliver, only to be met with an icy mask.

Yeah, this next step will be a bundle of fun.

When they reach the outbuilding, the door to their room is locked behind them, and Felicity shuffles across the tile floor to the foot of the big red bed. She spares a short glance at the camera in the corner before looking away. Solid red light on. Reconnected. Of course.

Oliver moves behind her, but she just _can’t_ look at him right now. She presses her hands together, not surprised to find her palms slightly clammy.

This is it. Two years of watching him. Two kisses that were only preludes yet rocked her to her core. All to come to this one time.

It is so wrong. Felicity lets herself feel her revulsion at Phieser’s demands, at the possibility of sex under duress, and her bone-deep sorrow at what this could do to all the little fledgeling feelings she ever felt for Oliver.

Then she pushes it aside, wiping her palms down the front of her short leather vest as she remembers the people at the DeAnza building and in the images of that Hong Kong market. If they stand any chance at stopping Luke’s attack tonight, this must go on. Really, making love to a guy she’s crazy for to save thousands of lives: that should be a no brainer, right?

She blinks hard once and turns around, ignoring the camera. She makes herself see only Oliver, standing in the shadows of the room, watching her as always. Letting her make the first move, she realizes.

She crosses to him with three rapid strides to his one, and they crash together with all the repressed anger, passion, and sweet, desperate longing that races through them both tonight. Her breasts crush against his hard chest, hips thrust into his strong legs, arms wrap around each other as their lips clash and hands grip at fabric, tugging, pulling, searching for skin. She lets him feel her teeth on the full flesh of his bottom lip, and he growls deep.

A second later, her leather vest is off, and Oliver is gazing down at her. Their foreheads press together, creating a tent of calm privacy in the middle of this insane situation.

His eyes are so blue as he searches hers. His lips, red from her kiss, tighten as if to dam in words, forcing all communication back through his eyes.

He wants something from her.

God help her, she wants something, too.

Felicity pulls away sharply, reaching for the hem of her black tank top, prepared to whip it off over her head and have his hands on her bare skin.

“No,” Oliver stops her with a hand on his forearm as he steps back into the shadows beneath that damned camera, her specially made vest in his other hand. “Undress for me.” His voice is rough. “Perform for me.” 

His eyes flick upward and Felicity realizes why he needed her to fake a tumble outside, why he was so quick to strip off her vest and the tablet hidden in the secret pocket at its back.

She gulps, backing to the center of the room, running her fingers along the line of skin between shirt hem and skirt top.

Oliver nods, half encouragement, half commiseration.

She’ll need to distract Phieser’s gaze while he gets into her programs and accesses the wireless trigger of the bomb he planted while their escort was grudgingly helping her to her feet outside. She’ll need to _dance_ while _he_ hacks. Ugh. But once the generator is down, they can make a break for Phieser’s server room in the main house and use the confusion to find Red Cell’s final target.

It’s good to finally understand the plan, but she can’t keep a pout off her lips as Oliver activates _her_ tablet within the camera’s blindspot.

His fingers swipe left while his eyes dart from her, to the display, and back again, snagging on the half-hearted sway of her hips.

She wants him to touch her again. She closes her eyes and lets herself feel that, moving her fingers along the path his should take, down the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips until her thumbs catch on the silver buckle of her narrow belt and she thinks of the underwear beneath the tiny leather skirt, thinks of Oliver’s reaction if he ever actually saw her in just that.

A devilish grin speeds across her face as she swings her fingers forward and flicks open the buckle, tugging on the strip of leather. Her eyes narrow in contemplation as she watches Oliver’s competent hands and strong wrists. He deftly manipulates the system, and she entertains the thought of him _not_ touching her as she straddles his hips, his arms pinioned with this small strap above his head. Her cheeks grow hot; the belt hangs from her hand; as Felicity’s imagination runs wild behind her eyelids.

Oliver makes a sound, and her eyes fly open to meet his. She can see the open program, trying to make contact with the bomb signal, giving Oliver nothing to do besides watch her until it connects.

And he is. Watching her.

His eyes are on her hand, toying with her waistband. His focus is intent and her mouth waters as she realizes he is following every sway of her hips.

The belt drops to the floor.

Felicity plays her fingers up the flat stretch of her belly to the hem of black tank top, lifting, skimming, tracing. Oliver follows every flirting flicker of her finger. She considers tugging her top off, wonders if his pupils will dilate further. Just how far can she get before the devices connect? Or should she dip beneath her waistband, test the wet heat she can feel growing heavy? What would he do then?

His free hand is a fist of frustration, his lower lip drawn in between his teeth. The moment hangs, breathing stills, both of them waiting on Felicity’s next move.

The opening chords of some classic rock number clash through the air, jolting their fragile connection.

Felicity shakes her head and modulates her rhythm to fit the peppy tune that extols her as, “dirty and sweet, oh yeah.”

Oliver spares a moment to glare with murderous intent up at the camera, which almost makes Felicity laugh. She makes a slow turn, tossing a smile over her shoulder at him.

The tune is catchy despite the absurdity of its lyrics, imploring them to “get it on; bang the gong,” and watching the situation grate upon Oliver’s nerves makes the indignity easier to bear, so she strokes her abs, works her top up her midriff, and tugs at her shoulder strap with the other hand until it is clear that she is wearing that ridiculous leather bra which none the less manages to make her cleavage look _fantastic_.

The tablet flashes in Oliver’s clenched grip, and Felicity looks down and bites her lower lip to hide her joy that her tech is working. Oliver sets a time delay with a few swipes of her well-written code, then almost drops the device on the floor instead of the chair as he moves towards her, pulling off his shirt.

The objection at his mishandling of her tablet is swept away when his warm arms snake up her sides and all that male muscle is pressed against her. One of his arms drops to her thigh and his knees bend, and suddenly she is pressed against him, her legs wrapped around his torso as his hand cups her ass, and she’s surrounded by his warm, salty self, moving through the cool night air.

She hadn’t realized that she was cold until he warmed her.

She cups his face, strokes up his jaw, loving the feel of her fingers against the short hair at his nape, pulling his lips towards her and sinking into a kiss. He’s moving her backwards and every step presses her against him in ways that even her crazy leather underwear can not dull. A short jerk marks some resistance and then he tumbles her back, almost throwing her, but falling after her onto the soft bed.

The reality of their situation spikes her consciousness again, and she registers the anger on Oliver’s face. It adds a sharpness to their kiss that makes her heart bleed. She’s sad again, embarrassed as small tears form at the corner of her eyes. Oliver sweeps them away with the pads of his thumbs and kisses her again, so sweetly, and she can’t remember who he is pretending for or if this is the truest kiss she has ever had, gentle and soft, and tasting of longing. Wrapped up in him, she can almost forget. She wants to forget, so she arches upward, pressing into his hard body so that his biceps shake and his hips slide against hers and she feels his arousal against her answering heat.

“Get ready,” he says.

Her brain catches up a few seconds later, just before the explosion echoes across the compound and they are plunged into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter of part two will post next Saturday!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Felicity and Oliver race against the clock to stop a large terrorist attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks for all the kudos, comments, reblogs, and recommendations this series has received!
> 
> Before we begin, I forgot to include a credit at the end of the last chapter, so the song that Felicity ends up strip tease dancing to is [Get it On by T.Rex.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TVEhDrJzM8E) The lyrics are hilarious.

Phieser’s compound is black except for the blue-glint of solar lights along the woodland paths and the stark bouncing beams of flashlights in the far distance. The gibbous moon paints the world in pale grey shadow and darker silhouettes. The darkness is her friend as she slinks through the night towards the main house. Phieser’s private server was easy to locate — the power draw alone is like neon arrows to Felicity — but the bastard was smart and kept the actual data off the network. So while Oliver waits in their “love den” to subdue anyone searching for the source of the bomb, Felicity creeps softly across the lawn and levers herself up onto the moonlit porch across from a set of glimmering french doors.

All the noise is concentrated to her left, near the shed where the power generator is currently crackling in flames. Several voices choke on hissed curses and low-hanging smoke.

Pretty fair chance there are no guards on the other side of the doors, even though they are mirrored by moonlight.

Pretty fair…

Felicity bites her lip and commits, striding across the exposed porch and twisting the door handle firmly to avoid any betraying rattle.

One quick snick of the latch, a wisp from her dark coat on the wooden frame, and she’s inside.

A second later she drops to the ground, pressing into the shadow at the door’s base as candlelight blooms in the inner hallway.

“I want to know what the _fuck_ I pay you people for!” Phieser bellows as he storms past the open doorway, his bathrobe streaming behind him like a wilted sunset.

“No one breached the perimeter.” Mitch is so matter-of-fact he sounds bored.

Enraged, Phieser spins, eye-to-eye with the short man as he spits out, “Did I say they had?”

The two remain locked in a staring contest while Felicity holds her breath and pretends to be anti-matter.

Mitch knows what’s best for him and finally drops his gaze, hunching his shoulders like a good subordinate. 

Phieser’s naked chest — _ew_ — puffs out. “Now…” he turns, contemplating the night scene just above Felicity. Sharp stars swing into the edge of her vision as she presses her lips together and continues to hold her breath. “I know who did this. Asshole clearly thought he was too good for us from the start, and his bitch wife… Well. I tried to be nice.” He turns back to Mitch at waits for the expected nod.

“Michael and Nikita?” Mitch seems startled, but consideration spreads across his face. “She stumbled just across from the genny shed. _Motherfuckers…_ ” he intones in awe.

Candle light glints along the length of Phieser’s gun as he taps Mitch on the shoulder. “You’re with me. I’ll need someone to hold that asshole down.”

Oxygen knifes through Felicity’s lungs as soon as they charge down the hallway, sheathing her in shadows once more. She may just be hyperventilating. The sudden image of Oliver bleeding on that red bed blooms large in her mind’s eye.

She shakes her head. No.

Oliver can handle himself. More than. She’s got to trust her partner and get her own job done.

They need that location of the final attack.

Her hands are shaking with adrenaline as she swings them before her, moving at a crouch through the dark house, two doors down to an interior room.

* * *

Felicity fumbles with her tablet for the first time in forever before switching on the screen and illuminating the windowless black hole of the server room. A black, monolithic tower and its desk with dark monitors occupies easily half of the small space.

Her lips press together as she evaluates the make and model of the system before setting down her tablet and going to work on the main access panel with a small screwdriver hidden in her belt buckle. Felicity transfers the screwdriver to her mouth and reaches deep into the guts of the machine, working by feel, searching for the main drive. Her eyes close as she finds the right screw nub and reapplies her tool, angling it to maximum effect as her breathing slows to normal.

The death, deception, and danger will never feel right, but this she knows.

Her hand is steady as she pulls out the circuit board and lays it gently next to the blue light of her tablet. Next she attaches the necessary cables, taking the time she needs to do this right. The hard drive is built for a very different power source and the non-stop action of cooling fans. Her battery is at 62%, so this configuration will not last long. She winces as she powers up the system with a few swipes of the tablet. Nothing explodes.

Good.

58% power.

Working fast now, Felicity cycles through Phieser’s known and likely passwords. She’s surprised to unlock a layer with ‘JULES.’

47% power.

Once into the first layer, the backdoor is easy to trigger. Large strings of file hierarchies fall like dominos across her screen.

43% power. Faster now.

There it is: one of two files, accessed today, large enough to contain images.

She takes both files, just to be sure.

36% power.

Felicity powers down the drive. She hisses from the overheated disk as she unplugs the hardwire connection and pouts at the technology, betrayed.

A second is all she gives to feel sorry for herself.

She considers her choices, thinks about Phieser’s character, and runs a virus scan before opening either file. It takes a full minute, but it is worth it to be sure that her system will not be corrupted. Her fingers tap as she wills the progress bar to move faster.

All clear.

The seconds slip away as she sifts through the large file. Schematics and chemical compounds and trial data paint a picture of pain and despair. Ugh. Science perverted and corrupt makes her want to cry. Or hit things. Oliver has been rubbing off on her…

Nothing here about tonight’s target.

Brow furrowed, she opens the smaller doc.

The lines are sparse, but the address is clear: 89 E 42nd Avenue. It’s along the border between industrial and commercial; she speculates as she opens her map app. A precise time, too. 9:23 pm.

The central train station.

Oh, God. Even at this time, the death count could hit tens of thousands. If it detonates on the tracks, in the open air, the wind could carry the poisonous cloud for miles. She doesn’t need to pull up population density to count the rows of headstones.

A desperate sound rises in her throat, but she chokes it off. Practicality hardens her motions. This is what she’s been trained for. She will not let this happen.

* * *

Pebbles ricochet like gunshots along the path as Felicity sprints the last few yards towards the open door.

The door is _open_.

At most she was only gone for twenty minutes.

At most Phieser had twelve minutes on her.

What had happened to Oliver?

No blood on the path. No screams from inside. These were all good things. _Right?_

She skids to a stop in the final feet, moves onto tip toes as she reaches the yawning doorway and peers slowly past the frame.

Mitch lies in an inert pile three feet from the door. Felicity could tell herself that he was knocked out, but she is pretty sure that would be a lie.

Necks just don’t bend that way.

She eases into the room, stepping over the body.

A crack splits the air, flesh on flesh, a familiar sound these past two years.

Motion at the foot of the bed draws her eyes though the gloom of the room.

Oliver crouches on one knee, his face sublimely patient. He doesn’t even blink as he swings his arm again, backhanding the crumpled form at the foot of the bed.

Phieser groans.

“Good, you’re coming to,” Oliver says. He straightens and something shines in his hand. A knife. The tip is dark. “Now. Again: where is the bomb?”

Oh. Physical interrogation. Her least favorite way of getting information. Not she could argue with the choice of target.

Phieser sniffs, letting his head fall at a cocky angle, and says nothing.

Oliver drives his knife into Phieser’s thigh without warning.

Phieser howls, then his head starts to drop forward again.

“Not this time.” Oliver grabs the man at the jaw, shaking him by the face, unhinged in a way she has never seen him.

Felicity steps out from the shadows and exhales his name. Oliver drops Phieser, stepping back rapidly. His face is… there are too many things going on in his eyes and the set of his mouth for Felicity to parse at once.

“You’re alright.” It is a statement of fact that snaps him straight again. She blinks and the turmoil of emotions is returned to icy calm. “Did you find it?” he asks.

“Yes and no.” Felicity steps closer to Oliver, settling a hand on his forearm, assuring herself that Oliver’s calm competence has returned yet also hoping to identify an iota of the storm that raged before.

At his short nod, she turns and spots that Phieser is attached to the foot of the bed by a set of pink furry handcuffs.

She cocks an eyebrow at Oliver.

“Found them in the drawer.”

She smirks, then clarifies her earlier answer. “We know the location, but we’ll need _help_ locating Luke.” She nods towards Phieser.

Phieser whimpers low and pathetic in the back of this throat. “You can’t take me there. We’ll all die.”

“No,” Felicity corrects as she steps in front of Oliver’s instinctual response, “ _you’ll_ die. We’ll be wearing gas masks.”

* * *

Phieser’s silver Corvette slips into a vacant handicap spot in front of the main terminal a few minutes after nine. Felicity’s heart still races from Oliver’s desperate driving and from bandaging the leg of a trussed-up Phieser in the small back seat. She wishes she could take a minute to admire the impressive edifice of the grand old train station, but she can almost hear the doomsday clock ticking.

“9:23,” she reminds Oliver over the car top as he yanks the terrorist out the other side.

They frog march him beneath the arching doorway, and her mouth goes dry at volume of humanity filling cavernous space in the central room. The ceiling echoes with purposeful footsteps, half-heard conversations, and the clatter of luggage wheels. Late dinners are gathered from vending machines and consumed on the go, their pungent wrappers mostly landing in brimming trash cans. A muted Mozart sonata rises from a violinist halfway down the room and weaves through the throng. The street performer saws back and forth on his instrument for spare change, unaware he is less than an hour from death. All of these people are.

“Where?” Oliver shakes Phieser, the movement transferred to Felicity through her grip on Phieser’s silk-clad arm.

She has a different question. “Why are there people still here?” They identified the target an hour ago, but Section’s presence seems isolated to the two of them. She wants to call it out, to challenge Oliver right now so he will _get these people to safety_.

Oliver grimaces, then nods to the left.

Two men in black suits slip through one of the archways towards the tracks below, and Felicity finally clocks them as more than businessmen. She looks around again. There, a woman holding coffee in one hand and cupping her ear in the other. And there, a college student panning his phone’s camera over the room from the gallery. Section is here after all.

John Diggle runs up from behind one of the ticket booths.

Oliver greets him tersely. “Sit Rep?”

“We’ve got five teams doing sweeps for your guy, and Curtis is scouring the security feeds.”

“Why —”

But Oliver gets the question out first. “Why haven’t we cleared the area?”

John’s head jerks back in surprise before he recites Section dogma, “Any unusual activity, like a bomb threat or gas leak, would spook the guy, probably redirect him to a second target, or - worse - send him into the wind.”

Felicity wants to scream. Because she _knows_ this. She _knows_ Section’s line. She might even buy the line if these people are reduced to data, numbers to be subtracted or divided for the greater bottom line, but it still doesn’t make the math _right_ , damn it. _One_ life is too many, and she feels despair set in as a child bounces past clinging to her father’s shoulders. The little girl rubs her eyes, then gives Felicity a sleepy smile before she disappears deeper into the crowd.

“Hey!” Oliver’s face snaps into focus in front of her.

John is holding Phieser, intimidating enough with the guns in his arms but flashing gun metal under his jacket just in case he gets any stupid ideas.

Oliver pulls her a step away. “Felicity,” he whispers with insistence, “This isn’t over. I need you on this.”

She nods, summoning the relaxed stance and detached awareness drilled into her over the past two years. Oliver gives her shoulder a final squeeze before stepping back to John.

“We’ve covered tracks 1 through 30.” John leads them to the archway on the right, pulling Phieser along. “Nothing yet. If your time is right, this could get messy.”

“There’s still time to clear the blast radius,” Phieser observes. “Luke had hours on you. It doesn’t matter how many people you have.”

“Shut up,” Oliver says.

“No, but I have a _lot_ of money. Take me out of here now and you’ll be set for life.”

“No, really, _shut up_.” Oliver shoves his gun against Phieser’s ribs through his coat, staring him down, while John moves casually to cover the exchange.

Felicity watches Phieser as his eyes drop from Oliver’s. Just as Oliver pulls back, Phieser’s watery blue eyes dart up and to the left, a telling micro expression. She follows the look and sees Luke moving along the gallery above.

“Up there!”

“Converge on quadrant C,” John barks. Oliver and John take off like bloodhounds, pushing through the crowd towards the nearby staircase. 

Luke passes out of her line of sight, deeper into the gallery.

Felicity yanks Phieser back before he can lunge more than a step towards the exit.

“Come on, Nikita, or whatever your name is, let me go. We had fun! We could still have fun, you and me?”

Her expression slays Phieser’s next words before they leave his lips.

Oliver and John reach the top of the stairs and continue their charge. She can no longer see the Section operatives. This should all be over in —

Felicity notices the clocks, small and digital, near every entrance, and a giant old analog with four faces suspended from a metal cage over the concourse.

9:18

Again, numbers run through her mind. Just five minutes for the teams to grab Luke. To make Luke tell them the location of the bomb. To find the bomb, disarm or contain it.

The numbers are not looking good.

“How do we disarm the bomb?” She can do _something_ with her time.

Phieser manages a simultaneous sulk and smirk, and doesn’t answer.

Felicity spots movement at the far end of the gallery, above track five. Oliver’s body drives like a piston through the air into another shape. Luke? Other figures in black converge.

What is Phieser smirking about? He thinks that he is so smart.

“What’s so funny?” she demands.

Phieser is resigned, staring up past her with dogged persistence. Moira covered this. He’s accepted his death, and very little can motivate him to break, not when his professional pride is hanging by the thread of this one event. His bomb goes off, and at least he remains _that guy_ , the one who can get things done. He’s chosen his reputation over his life.

Why is he so sure it is done? They still have time.

The clocks read 9:20.

The operative disguised as a college student is still at his post as overwatch. He’s reaching into his red backpack and pulling out… a compact gas mask. A group of teenaged girls walk past Felicity, utterly unprotected.

No!

“GET OUT!” She shouts at the teens. They look at her with expressions ranging from confused to pitying.

Felicity pulls her gun and fires straight up. Three blasts, tight pattern. Plaster rains down as everyone around her falls and cowers.

“Get out, _now_!” She commands.

They do, running under that ticking clock.

9:21

And next to the clocks, numbers and words flicker as the destination board updates.

Oh, no.

The 9:23 train arrives at track 34. On time.

Felicity drops Phieser’s arm and sprints through the crowd which parts for the crazy woman with pink pigtails and a smoking gun.

The stairs down to the tracks are steep and she _does not have time_ , so she grabs an abandoned skateboard off the ground, makes a wish, and jumps, sliding down the railing while her hands pinwheel wildly, clawing the air for balance.

She lands with a crash that draws the attention of those waiting for the train. So many people.

She shoots the red smoke detector overhead, her gunshots echoing off the low cement ceiling and tiled columns. Sprinklers flick on, drenching the crowd as they flee from the tracks in any way that they can.

Track 34 lies to the left of the narrow platform, just two dull rails in a sea of chalky, grey pebbles.

It all looks the same from her perch at the edge, and she has to wipe her forehead to keep the sprinkler water from her eyes.

So she jumps down. Frantic she begins to move along the tracks, searching for any sign of disturbance.

God, if she’s wrong…

If she’s wrong, she’s dead.

Light breaks through the night air down the track.

The light at the end of the tunnel is literally approaching her. Laughter erupts, and she almost chokes on it.

Which is when she sees it.

Three feet ahead, sticking out on the right-hand rail, there is a small coil of white wires.

Felicity lunges for them, pulling firmly, no time for finesse. A silver canister emerges from the rocks.

Dropping to her knees, Felicity digs until the tube is free as the train rumbles towards her.

She can hear the brakes squealing, feel the jagged stones abrading her hands, but it is worth it when the canister emerges with no secondary trigger attached. The train is the only detonator.

Felicity tugs, moving towards shelter of the small gap under the platform’s lip.

Wires snag, unearthing a second tube by the left rail. _Oh, come on._

“Felicity!” Oliver lands gracefully at the bottom of the stairs with a shout. John and several others follow in gas masks. 

She spares a moment for a single mouthed word before turning away from Oliver and rolling across the tracks in front of the oncoming train.

She knows the size and shape of the gas canisters now, so she knows where to pull, where to dig, and she turns her roll into additional momentum, aiming for the dark gap on the far side.

Her vision is a blurred jumble as the tracks rattle and brakes scream.

Her last sight before the train screams past is Oliver being tackled by John at the edge of the platform.

* * *

“Stop squirming.”

Felicity grumbles but settles more firmly into the examination table as the medic wraps the soft, wispy gauze around, and around, and around her waist. It _tickles_. She’s holding her elbows out to her side like chicken wings as she covers her breasts for modesty’s sake. Like a chicken. A giggle burbles forth. The whole left side of her ribcage is an ugly purple, but she doesn’t feel a thing. These are _good_ aspirin. She makes a mental note to ask John for another, but he’s not here now.

She glances over her shoulder. Oliver is busy propping up a wall near the med-bay door.

“I’m fine, you know.”

“Two bruised ribs and a possible concussion is _not_ fine,” he replies.

“Mmm. No concussion. John says.” She frowns and pushes the stray strands of cotton candy hair behind her ear so that she can see his face more clearly.

His gaze flickers below her shoulder blade — Whoops! Felicity shifts her hands again. — Oliver’s expression grows darker as he glares at the Section medic.

“How long will she need monitoring?”

“She should stay on site for a few hours, but I’m not too concerned.” The dark-haired woman sounds bored as she ties off the bandage and helps Felicity on with a soft cotton wrap shirt in pale blue.

“See?” Felicity hops down. Frowns when the world does a little whirly dance. She leans on the other woman for a second before turning to face Oliver who has moved to the other side of the high table. “I’m good to go! Are you going to debrief me now?”

His face looks funny.

Oh.

“Not de _brief_ ,” she begins to clarify.

“Felicity…” Her name is half plea, half endearment on his lips. It sounds nice.

The curtain snicks shut behind the medic, giving them the illusion of privacy if not the fact. That’s all they ever really have, anyway. Whoa, that was a morose turn of thought. Felicity considers that those aspirin might not have been aspirin after all.

Oliver is standing very close to her all of a sudden. It feels very nice. She smiles up at him.

“Felicity, what you did…”

“Had to stop the gas, Oliver.” Her smile fades. “I saw what happened in Hong Kong,” she confesses. “All those people.” Her hand falls gently on his chest, just above the location of that star-shaped tattoo. She blinks away the memory of his naked torso and focuses on the conversation at hand. “Those people at the train station tonight, they didn’t ask to be saved, didn’t ask to be in danger. They were just going about their life.” She’s musing now, stroking soft swirls with the pads of her fingers along his crisp white shirt. “That used to be me.”

“And me.” Self-deprecating amusement lingers in his voice. Why? He tried to stop the Hong Kong attack. He’s always so driven, so heroic. Was he ever really a ‘normal’ person?

She meets his gaze, searching for a sign of who he was _before_. “We lose a lot, living this life.” Her focus flutters to his lips as she gathers her thoughts, but returns to meet his eyes directly. “But it’s worth it. Today, it was worth it.”

She grins.

“We saved the world today, Oliver. Well,” she qualifies, “a _part_ of it.”

He smiles softly and raises his hand to her head, and she just stands there like a dope as her smile fades again because… this is _real_. No camera, no eyes watching. He is so close. She is _touching_ his warm, wonderful body, and she is not wearing a bra. He has a light in his eyes right now like a candle kindled in a cozy window, welcoming you in from the cold.

His hand nears her face, hovers for the space of one breath.

Then, so gently she sighs, he turns his fingers and strokes her flyaway tendrils away from her temple. The back of his fingers rest against the edge of her face as he gazes at her.

“You’re remarkable, Felicity.”

Well. Well, that was a lot.

She swallows. “Thank you for remarking on it.”

He laughs softly. Then his face moves closer, and she freezes, just letting this happen, letting it be real.

He presses a kiss to her forehead. She is so muddled she just blinks down at his collar bone until he pulls back again. What does this mean?

“Now,” he says, taking a step back, “will you let me take you to dinner?”

She has emotional whiplash. “Uh…”

“Or, breakfast, I guess.” He chuckles. “I know the doctor says you’ll be fine in a few hours, but I’d feel happier if you let me keep an eye on you a bit longer.”

“Sure!” That came out too fast. But he can totally keep whatever he wants on her. Um. She presses her lips together, cursing the drugs, John, and commuter trains for good measure.

“Great.” He moves to the curtain. “So, I’ll see you in a couple hours?”

She nods, keeping her mouth closed.

He leaves her with a friendly smile, and she lets out a slow breath.

She is _very_ careful not to think of this as a _date_ , because the last time is too quickly called to mind, especially when she ended up in this exact room.

Still.

It kind of sounds like a date.

Felicity shakes out her hands to calm her nerves, then gathers her effects from below the examination bench. The small plastic bin contains all of Nikita Samuelle’s leather and weapons. This is the first time she’s been brought in unconscious, and she still needs to return her gear and collect her own clothes.

Maybe Moira would have something nice she could wear to the not-a-dinner-date-breakfast thing…

Ugh, no, no. Her pretty day dress and heels would be _fine_.

Felicity marches out of the infirmary with a grudging ‘thank you’ for the medic. Her head is down as she works to keep her mind off of Oliver and the fluttering smile off her lips. She certainly doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone until she gets a better handle on her emotions. Fortunately, Section is quiet at this time of night, with very few operatives moving about. The metal catwalks are too well built to echo under her feet and the stone walls absorb much of the extraneous sounds. Even Curtis is missing, the hub manned by a skeleton crew focused on their jobs.

She is halfway to John’s domain, dark except for the pale blue tracks of night-time lighting, when she hears the laughter. A shiver runs down her spine at the memory.

Felicity looks up towards Operations’s office, nestled like an eagle’s perch in a glassed-in balcony over the main room. Low lights in warm tones mimic candlelight as three men speak with animated camaraderie over tumblers of shared bourbon. The first is Operations, and the only thing surprising about his presence is the smile splitting his face before he takes a sip. The second man is older and unknown to Felicity.

The third is Phieser.

He is not in handcuffs. His abrasions have been tended. And it was his laughter she heard, even through the glass.

Injustice rocks through Felicity. Suddenly her side aches and her knees are weak, and still that evil man has too many teeth and not enough holes in his body. Blindly she grabs the gun from the bin she carries, dropping the rest.

She steps over the fallen black leather skin of Nikita and squares off in the middle of Section, beneath the curved windows.

She takes her time aiming. She imagines the glass shattering at the first couple hits, the sound of Section stirring when her action is detected. But it will be too late, because she’ll empty a clip into him and he will _stop_ and she’ll be able to breath again because Phieser is a chemical weapon in human form, threatening to poison the whole human race with every breath he takes.

She pulls the trigger.

The click is satisfying, even as she returns the empty gun to her side and hangs her head, her eyes still staring up at the terrible tableau in Section’s command center.

“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”

Felicity jumps when Moira speaks next to her.

The older woman watches the men above with a frustrating calm as she addresses Felicity.

“It’s shades of grey: there’s no such thing as the enemy any more. As long as Phieser is willing to play both sides of the fence, he’ll continue to do business.” Finally she turns her head to look at Felicity.

There is nothing to say. She saved no one today. What is the point?

Moira gives her shoulder a small squeeze, just a single human touch, and says, “come and see me, if you need to talk.” Then she is gone, leaving Felicity with the silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so very much for all of you who are as excited about this story as I am. I do plan on continuing it to its epic completeness, so there will be more to come. However, the start of the school year is upon me once more, so I can’t be sure when the next part will post. Please feel free to subscribe to the series here on AO3 and/or follow me on Tumblr or Twitter (same username). I’ve posted a [writing meme on Tumblr](http://truemyth.tumblr.com/post/164087638972/questions-for-writers) if you’d like to ask any general questions.
> 
> The plot of this story was taken largely from the _La Femme Nikita_ episode _Love_. Here’s some trivia: Although _Love_ is listed as episode 1x06 of LFN, it was actually the first episode filmed, I think to put [a test to the chemistry between Peta Wilson and Roy Dupuis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WG8mRvn_M2s). I think they passed! But oh my, the 90’s outfits! Anyway, I actually think it plays better to come directly after the pilot episode.
> 
> The subtitle of this work is _Ludus_ which has many meanings in Latin: play, game, sport, training, but they all have to do with playfulness and a hint of frivolity or even frivolousness. In terms of types of love, _ludus_ represent playful flirting. As before with _amour de soi_ , we find Felicity and Oliver placed in a situation where their natural inclinations to flirt, kiss, and play with each other are twisted to the point of perversion by Section and Phieser. Did they manage to steal their love back? Or is the situation stealing love from them?
> 
> Part three will be subtitled _Storge_ , bringing a deepening of the bond between Oliver and Felicity as well as revealing more about what went different in Oliver’s life to lead him into Section instead of home to Starling City. There will be flashbacks, but I hope they’ll rank with the more interesting of those on the show. ;)
> 
> I can’t wait to hear what you thought of the conclusion to this part. I know it did end on a downbeat and hope that you can forgive me!


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